


The Nobleman's Reward

by Trollvine



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Depression, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nobility, Older Man/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-05-13 21:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14756261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trollvine/pseuds/Trollvine
Summary: Visiting the city on a noble errand, an elvish lord from slightly more rural lands is treated with the luxuries of city life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came nearly three months ago and was fleshed out in a matter of hours, written down in a handful of days. Since then its been rewritten at least 4 times, and the main theme changed twice. It's not exactly where i had planned on it being, but i'm not sure i could rewrite it another time.

Lathyr’s boots tapped the polished marble as he strode down the long hallway of the magistrate’s estate. High arching windows let in the golden sunlight, drawing vibrancy from the red tapestries hanging proudly from the walls and ceiling. Courtiers and servants passed him, fellow blood elves dressed in silken finery, and Lathyr almost felt self conscious in his beaten leather armor, impeccably crafted though it was. But he breezed past them, tall and dignified, his long black hair swaying behind him, a vision of the graceful ease of his race. 

This was not the kind of place, or life, that Lathyr was used to, and he did not care for it. If he was being truthful, he loathed it. Many of his highborn brethren lived in luxurious mansions on sprawling estates near the largest cities, attended by younger generations and lower class servants. But although Lathyr was of a noble house, wealthy and connected, his home was not the soft cushions and perfumed halls of rich. From his earliest boyhood it was the emerald forests and rolling hills that drew him, the great beasts and wild places.

His skills with bow and sword were uncanny, and he had become the youngest scion of the House of Green Tree to lead the great autumnal hunt, track one of the great ivory stags, and bring the mighty beast low. That was the life he craved, among elves who felt and lived the same as himself, in the hunting lodges and warrior posts. Here in the sumptuous halls of the upper class, he felt lingering glances at his attire and the large, practical daggers at his belt. He could hear the sneers and whispers of these young nobles, who spent their lives safe behind the high walls and magical wards of the larger cities. 

Even when Arthas had marched north with a legion of shambling corpses at his back, when brave elvish blood had been spilled and the sunwell despoiled, none of these supposed elite of his race had scarce been bothered to leave their cushioned sofas. Their safety had been wrought by their forefathers, magical wards and enchanted guardians facing the worst of the dangers that beset any city not in Arthas’ path. 

Inwardly he sneered right back. Lathyr had given much in the defense of his own lands, and he and his brave rangers had barely held the undead at bay, forced to give ground time and again before the rotting hordes were finally halted and diverted at the banks of the river Lae’theya. Lathyr scowled. Many saplings had been planted in the groves of remembrance during those dark days, and far too many bore the runes of the house of Green Tree. His contempt for these people was as strong as theirs for him. He simply masked it with superior tact. 

He had arrived here four days ago, calling on the master of the house of Sunwing, and for four long days he had been forced to wait, while the master attended to ‘other business,’ he was told. This was most likely an attempt to seduce him with luxuries and display the many wonders of the house of Sunwing. But to Lathyr, it had simply been four days of bored misery. 

He arrived at the doors to the inner reception room, opened for him by two handsome young men in red and black silk uniforms. The reception room was tasteful, a large skylight letting in a slant of warm sun, and soft mana candles arranged on a low wooden table and in alcoves along the walls. Red silken chairs and couches surrounded it, and the walls to his left and right each had a pair of highly polished double doors. Directly across from him, a giant painting dominated the wall, showing a group of old Highborn hunting on horseback. 

A pretty Sin’dorei woman stood by the table, clad in a snug fitting black dress, her golden hair bound up in a tight knot. She bowed low as Lathyr entered, gesturing to wine on the table and the silken chairs. 

“Welcome my lord. I beg your pardon, I must summon my master. There are many important matters that demand his attention today. Please, refresh yourself and be at ease. If you require anything, do not hesitate to ring for service.” 

Her accent was true highborn, though Lathyr thought he heard something sarcastic when she spoke ‘Lord’. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and she bowed again before turning and sweeping gracefully through the doors to his left, closing them softly behind her. Lathyr walked slowly around the table, ignoring the wine, his eyes on the painting. It was a marvelous example of the style of the second age, though he doubted it was truly so old. An elven noble, golden locks flying, was straddling his bucking horse, spear thrust downward at the snarling gnoll he was chasing. Behind the main figure, a group of elven noblemen and a small cluster of squires waited on their mounts. Lathyr saw the artist had worked in the banners of the houses of Sunwing, Firestar, Winterlight, and Green Tree. 

Lathyr knew this hunt. One of the Green Tree nobles would have been his father, another his uncle. This had been a gathering some years ago, during a hunt organized among a handful of the great families. The figure in the front would be Kaleos Sunwing, when he slew the chief of the Blackpaw gnolls, Briartooth. Lathyr had seen the head of the beast along the walls inside the entrance to the mansion. The Sunwing house was among the most proud, and their countless trophies of war and hunt spoke to the quality of the family. 

There was a soft click, and Lathyr turned as the door the servant had gone through opened. Through it came Korleos Sunwing, master of the mansion and heir to the crimson throne of the Sunwing. His long red hair was tied back with a golden ornament, his stately clothes finely tailored with silk and golden threads. He strode in with an energy and confidence that signified not just a Sin’dorei, but one of high birth. His fingers gleamed with golden rings set with gemstones, mostly rubies, and a beautiful sword scabbard hung from his belt. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and deep, brimming with self satisfaction. 

“Lathyr of Green Tree, welcome. I pray my hospitality is not found wanting?”

Lathyr remembered he had not bothered to take a cup of wine, and shook his head as he accepted the one Korleos plucked from the table and held out to him, bowing slightly. “Not at all, magistrate.” Bothering to meet a noble of equal rank was the least Korleos could do, but Lathyr let it pass. He had no desire to be drawn into a verbal sparring match. 

Korleos gazed at the painting, and Lathyr returned his attention to it as Korleos spoke. “Ah, yes, the flower of Sunwing royalty at sport. That is my uncle of course, Kaleos, when he was the master of the great hunt and brought back the head of that savage brute. You and he both share that distinction, of course, and your own family is represented, I see.” 

Lathyr inclined his head gently. “My honor to be in such noble company. My father and uncle it was who joined your uncle for that hunt.” He sipped his wine to excuse himself from saying more and revealing that he actually knew very little of Kaleos Sunwing or his life. The wine was good, but it settled in his gut with a strange heat, and he adjusted his weight to hide a fidget of discomfort. But Korleos seemed to not notice, and he beamed again and went on. 

“No need to be modest, Lathyr. Your blood is as old and as noble as his or mine. You are with equals, and your reputation precedes you, a true hero of the Sin’Dorei. Tales of your valor on the front in years past are spoken through all of Quel’Thalas.” He raised his cup in toast. 

Lathyr managed a grim smile, returning the gesture. Korleos was laying the flattery on thickly, which probably pained him. Lathyr was not so vain as to be swooned by fawning praise. He took another sip of wine, and the heat was less settled this time. There was a restlessness starting to squirm inside him, pent up energy like the tension before a battle. 

This game bored Lathyr, he pretending to be awed by the golden luxury of the estate, and Korleos fawning over the martial ways of frontier nobility. These were tedious but necessary steps, simply the way things were done in high elf society. It was the worst kind of pretentious and petty, a glossy sheen on the simplest of transactions, and whatever was in the wine was not helping. He set down his chalice, determined to not take any more. 

Korleos laughed and raised his own cup again. He drank deep, then set the cup down on the table and rubbed his hands together in front of himself. “Now, I believe i know why you are here.” 

Finally, Lathyr thought, and nodded, reaching to his belt and retrieving a small wooden box. It was made of a dark wood, with tarnished metal hinges. He presented this to Korleos, who drew in his breath sharply. His eyes glittered with excitement as he took the box from Lathyr, and with barely concealed eagerness he opened the lid. His fingers plucked the little object in the box and held it up to the light. It was a ring, an intricately worked band of silver, inscribed with impossibly small writing, with a large ruby set in the top. 

A chief virtue among the Sin’dorei was the concealment of emotion, especially among the upper classes. Remaining aloof and mysterious was a way of daily life for an elf such as Korleos, as he politicked and intrigued among the other nobles of Silvermoon. But even his lips trembled, and his eyes grew wet at the sight of the ring. 

“Could it be? The last ring of the house of Sunwing? This has been lost, for so long…” His voice quavered gently with excitement. 

He turned it reverently in his fingers slowly, then held it close to a ring on his right hand, and Lathyr saw the ring on his hand was similar, though with different writing. The rubies in each ring glowed softly as the rings were brought close together, and Korleos smiled in broad satisfaction. 

“It is genuine!” He glanced back up at Lathyr. “I mean no disrespect, of course. But one does want to be sure. I am confident you’ll agree, the reward I promised to any able to retrieve the ring was not inconsiderable. I simple wish to be beyond all doubt.” 

Lathyr bowed gently, unmoved. “I would have done the same.”   
Korleos sighed happily, his attention back on the ring. “It will need to be cleaned, naturally. I must ask, where did you finally find it? It was worn by my cousin, lost when that craven Arthas first brought his corpses into our lands.” 

Lathyr shrugged. “I found this about the neck of a troll, leading a warrior band from Zul’aman north into our lands. My men and I ambushed them at the Westwind bridge and drove them south. When I slew their chief, this was on a cord about his neck. The brute had no idea of its worth, or power. Where he found it, I do not know.” 

Korleos returned the ring to the box, and gently touched a rune on a golden bracelet he wore. “My cousin Kothaler was lost on the front. Some grave robbing troll, picking trinkets from the dead must have found it. I have wept for my cousin, but the return of this ring…” 

He beamed at Lathyr. “My house is whole again. The symbols of authority of my forefathers, together again under the same roof.” 

He waved his hand, and footsteps could be heard outside the door he had come through. Korleos winked at Lathyr. “You shall receive the gold I promised as reward for the rings return, my friend, and then some. But, I must confess, I never imagined… Something greater is required as well, I think. The full hospitality of the house fo Sunwing is yours to enjoy.” 

The door opened, and two young elves entered, a man and woman, each bearing a large tray. They were both finely formed youths, a head shorter than himself, dressed, barely, in silks and gold. The woman swayed her hips in a beckoning way, all curves, giggles, and blue eyes blinking coyly from a beautiful face with golden blonde hair. She wore scant few red silks draped over her, revealing much of her milky white skin through their sheer material. 

Yet it was the young man who caught Lathyr’s eye first. He was sleek, his limbs muscled but not large, his soft blonde hair cut short but wistful. His green eyes were larger and softer than the predatory gaze of Lathyr, or the calculating, cunning glances of the aristocratic Korleos. He wore a small black silken garment about his loins, held together by two golden hoops, one on each side, the fabric cut to compliment the curve of his girlish hips and the rise of his rounded backside. Other than this, he was completely naked, save for a small black collar around his neck. 

Lathyr harbored no preference between male and female. His desires often ran more than skin deep, and what drew his eyes, and his affections, were stout courage, sublime skill, and confidence. Soft curves around the thighs never hurt either. Yet the two youths had an allure that could not be ignored, even by one as jaded with this entire situation as he. The restless heat of the wine was making it worse, and he realized it had probably been spiked with some exotic drug. There was a familiarity, and similarity, between the pair, and Lathyr realized that there was a good chance they might be twins. 

The tray the woman bore was loaded with an array of small plates and bowls, each bearing a different delicacy of elvish cuisine. The aroma coming from it was nearly intoxicating. The other tray the young man carried was full of different bottles, jugs and bowls of liquors.

Lathyr felt a low surge of excitement, and he chided himself with disgust. He had heard of the pleasure quarters of the noble houses, though house Green Tree had done away with their own decades before Lathyr had been born. The whispered tales of debauchery and excess that surrounded these places were legendary among the high born. Still, it had been many nights since he had last shared a bed with another warm body. He took a deep breath. This was surely the wine, or drug, or whatever it was, he told himself. 

Korleos gestured with his hand at the two youths as they slid their trays to the table with practiced ease. He smiled at Lathyr. “A sample of the pleasures to be had within the house of Sunwing, and I formally invite you to the Summer’s moon event tonight in the pleasure quarter. It shall be in your honor.” The two youths had slinked around to flank Lathyr, the woman on his left, the young man on his right. 

The woman placed a hand on Lathyr’s chest, gently tracing the curve of the stitching on his leather armor. Her perfume was subtle, but rich, clearly expensive. Lathyr regarded her wide, wet eyes as she gazed adoring up at him, pressing her soft and silky form against him. Korleos bowed, smiling, then before Lathyr could speak, the wooden doors clicked shut again and Korleos was gone. 

“Is my lord enjoying himself?” The woman purred, her hands fluid and firm as she massaged his armor, fingers tugging gently at the edges in a subtle display of her eagerness, feigned or otherwise. Lathyr was taken aback, and nearly jumped as a second set of hands slid around midsection from behind him. The young man, and Laythr was surprised at the bubble of anger that rose in him, that he had not noticed the young mans movements. Such a lapse in his awareness was rare, and he loathed that his senses might be easily subdued by supple youths and expensive liquor. 

This was not how Lathyr would have enjoyed intimacy with another, let alone two. The fawning praise, the lavish surroundings, the bought and paid for nature of his partners enthusiasm. The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth, and with a not entirely gentle motion, he freed himself from the hands of the two, turning towards the door. His patience was fraying, and he decided his chambers might not be good enough, and he may head down to the barracks and try to vent his growing energy on a sparring partner. 

“I do not have time for either of you. You may return to Korleos and inform him I am unable to attend his little party tonight.” His veins, his skin was on fire now, and sweat was beading openly on his skin as though he stood near a bonfire. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and his head thrummed with dull pain.

To his surprise, the young woman latched on to his arm, her voice a gentle, needy whine. “No, my lord, stay! Let us properly reward you!” The young man stood at his side, plucking a cup of wine from the table, his voice smooth and clear. “It is the least we can do for one who has served our master so well. Let us be your respite from the savagery of the woodlands.” 

Savage.

One who had served. 

The heat inside his roared to his brain, and the room grew hazy. Lathye felt as though he could hear words coming from down the hall, or from somewhere far away. His limbs trembled, and he found he wanted to start gasping for breath. His chest and his head ached horribly, and he felt his hackles rising. 

Lathyr turned, slowly, his eyes iron slits of anger, his entire body radiating a dangerous energy that even the dullest of creatures could not fail to miss. This was how he was seen, put into careless words by some pampered fop. A crude, ignorant cousin, an embarrassing dunce ushered off to the provinces to keep his oafish hands out of proper elvish society. Lathyrs patience with this entire condescension had broken, and the heat in his gut and his brain had burned the last of his restraint. 

He lashed out like a striking serpent, and his leather fist caught the young man on the side of the head, sending him sprawling to the floor away from the table, wine cup clattering and splashing crimson across the dark stones. The young woman squealed in shock, clapping her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with fear. Lathyr glared at her for a moment, before turning back to the form on the floor. His voice grated, cold and harsh. “You think me some backwoods lapdog, boy? Some sniveling cretin at your ‘masters’ beck and call?” 

The young elf looked up in surprise, his hand clasped to the side of his head where he had been struck, his eyes on Lathyr with a mixture of shock and fear, and he made as if to rise on shaky legs. Lathyr snatched at the boy’s head, leather clad fingers entwining and grasping at the golden locks of hair. He turned and strode back to the table, and the younger man had no choice but to scramble on his hands and knees beside the taller man. 

Lathyr released the young man’s hair, catching the collar in almost the same instant and dragging him up by the garment, throwing him face first over the table. The impact of the sturdy wooden furniture drove the air from him, and he gasped in shock. Lathyr’s voice rose in anger. 

“You think there is savagery in my realm? Disorder among my people?” 

The young woman was as taken by surprise as her companion, but she stepped quickly to Lathyr, pressing her hand to his chest and trying to calm his obvious wrath. “My lord, I…” 

Lathyr pushed her off with force he hadn’t thought too great, but she went sprawling, caught by a silken chair. She drew her legs and feet up in a defensive position, cowering in fear. 

Lathyr pulled the young man’s hair back, until their eyes met, the elder cold and angry, the younger wide and panicked. With a cruel twist, he forced the young elf’s head away, pushing down hard and forcing his face against the polished wood as he bent him over the table. 

The young man’s silk clad rear was pushed into Lathyrs groin, and the hot surge in his loins ached approvingly. Lathyr struck the boy’s backside, putting real force behind his blows and drawing tortured yelps from the younger man. He writhed in a pitiful attempt to squirm away, and Lathyr let out an angered hiss. 

“Come boy, I thought you were offering to serve.” He growled, grinding himself into the boy’s body with abandon. The aching pulse in his body approved, and the dull pain began to feel more like muddled pleasure. Leather bound fingers slid beneath the silk fabric of the younger man’s only garment, and with a savage wrench they were torn free, exposing the soft pink of his flesh, turning slowly red under Lathyr’s punishment. 

Two more open palmed strikes and a hard twist of the hair brought more yelping cries from the young man. Lathyr let his features twist into a savage sneer he normally reserved for his foes on the battlefield. The silken garment was still clutched in his hands, and he yanked the boys head back, cramming it past his protesting lips and stifling his cries. It was kinder than a broken jaw. 

Lathyr released the young man’s hair, fixing his fingers instead on the black collar the man wore and gripping it tight, his other hand undoing his leather breeches. Gurgles and moans of discomfort came from the struggling form on the table, but the sound and the motion only stoked Lathyr’s lust hotter. The woman made as if to rise and protest, but Lathyr shot her a look that would have slain an orc at twenty paces. She cowered back onto to chair, and Lathyr finally freed his member from the confines of his clothes. 

One the tray of beverages was a small red crystal vial, and Lathyr knew this was no liquor. He tore the cork out with his teeth and upended the vial, recklessly coating his cock and the young man’s backside with the slippery oil. This seemed to alert the young man, jerking him form his focus on his own pain in his neck to the imminent act Lathyr was prepping him for. He tried to twist his head to meet Lathyr’s eyes, shaking his head in panic, but the squirming fear served only to finish the hardening of Lathyr’s shaft. 

Lathyr might have taken his time, let his partner ease into the penetration, had this been a session of real intimacy between himself and another. But the fire set in him by the drugs and his own anger threw such courtesy to the winds. With a hard thrust, Lathyr entered the younger elf, his growl of satisfaction mixing with a muffled squeal of pain and surprise. One hand held the collar around the boy’s neck, and other had gripped the boys wrist like a vice, tugging his arm behind his back, and Lathyr began his thrusts, starting to finally enjoy this properly. 

The table shook with each forward push of Lathyr’s hips, and each motion drew another tortured moan from the throat of the young man bent over the table. Lathyr was not concerned about his own longevity here. Each thrust was for his pleasure alone, and whatever feelings the young man got from it were not his concern. He sucked air past his gritted teeth as his hips rocked, the sensation rushing from his nerves to the rest of his body in an ecstasy that sent his head swimming. 

It felt wonderful, and the heat that had settled in him with the wine began to feel satisfied. The young man had obviously been trained for this sort of thing, as his body offered little resistance to Lathyr’s shaft, which fit rather nicely, like a hand in a glove. 

With a surprise he caught himself looking down, his eyes glued to the young man’s backside. Through the haze of his anger he realized there was an appreciation for this young elf. He had soft curves in the right places, but his arms and back were not without definition and muscle. A sheen of sweat made his back glisten under Lathyr’s gaze, and he realized his mouth was watering, his own body burning with something besides raw lust, drugs, and contempt. 

A fresh wave of disgust suddenly washed over him, and he redoubled his efforts, his hips a surge of rhythmic motion as he ravaged the younger man before him, who could only hold on to the table for support. The table itself rocked madly with the motion of Lathyr and the weight of the two. This was punishment and humiliation, he kept telling himself. Why was he looking at this boy like that, why was there any kind of favor in his gaze for him?

The groans of the young man had changed, however. There was something else besides panic and pain is his moans, and his breathing had taken a rhythm to match Lathyr’s thrusts, even as the elder increased his pace and his grip on the young man’s leather collar. Lathyr narrowed his eyes, holding tight but slowing his pace, pushing deep with each thrust. 

This was definitely drawing a more pleasured groan from the boy. He thrust again and again, over and over, building speed with the deeper motions until he had quickened his pace again, rutting like some drunk idiot down the back alleys of Silvermoon city’s ruby district as he began to abandon form again, letting lose with renewed energy. 

The boy’s body went rigid, and a series of deep moans came from his throat. Lathyr at first though he had damaged his conquest, perhaps hauled too hard on the black leather collar. But with a start he realized, the young man had climaxed, and he almost slipped into his instinct to slow down and let his partner recover. But he didn’t slow down, he found he didn’t want to. His confidence soared, and his hips slammed forward without pause. 

With one last wrench of the collar, Lathyr came suddenly, thrusting deep and holding himself while his subdued partner moaned as he felt Lathyr’s gift being deposited without ceremony. Lathyr pull back suddenly, dragging the young man back and hurling him to the floor, where he gasped for breath, his legs too weak to properly stand.

The fog of his lust began to clear, and realization of what he had done struck Lathyr like a bolt of lightning. His anger snuffed itself like a candle, and a slow, creeping wave of shame and self loathing enveloped him. He had acted exactly like high society would expect a savage to act, with wine spilled across the floor, the room is disarray and two cowering youths. 

The young woman hesitated for a moment, before sliding off and cradling the boys head in her arms, reading Lathyr’s spent rage in his body language. “Alaviyn….” She whispered, brushing the errant strands of blonde hair from his forehead, before looking up, just in time to see the flash of Lathyr’s boots as he stalked from the room. 

 

Some hours later, Lathyr sat alone in the guest chamber provided for him. Dinner had been brought, though he not had much of an appetite. He sat and stared despondently out the window, and the twinkling sea of lantern light being lit as the evening drew on over the estates. Korleos had managed to throw together a rather large gala at short notice, celebrating five fingers with fancy rings on them. Lathyr toyed with a dagger. It had been too late to begin the journey home, so he would have to spend one more night in this ridiculous mansion. The though of leaving in the morning should have made him happy enough to at least put on a showing at the evenings festivities, but instead he felt empty. 

His thoughts had not left the young man, Alaviyn. He shouldn’t even remember the man’s name, but found he was unable to stop thinking it. Lathyr had dealt out punishments before, though never in such a fashion. A careless servant reprimanded, a troublesome soldier lashed, and so on. But he had always felt in the right, and absolved of any accusation of wrongdoing. This time, though, he could not forgive himself. He had acted like a brute, he had given in to his rage and his impulses, drugs or not. 

Remorse was strange to him. Part of nobility was a neigh unshakable belief in the justification of his actions, his right to what he wanted, and the obligation owed to him by others. Though this had been tempered in him by the life of a soldier, he was still not immune. He traced the scars on his torso absently, his mind wandering.

He felt somewhat sick, and it would not have been the wine. He hated the cities and what he felt when he was here. He missed his home, the rolling hills, the sun riding high in a clear sky. Memories of his home should have made him feel better, but the gnawing in his mind wouldn’t stop. He needed wine, he decided, to dull this until he could go home. He rose unsteadily to his feet and padded miserably to the door, thinking to find the kitchen or a servant to fetch him wine. He opened to door and nearly walked straight into a figure that had been loitering directly outside his door.

It was Alaviyn, cleaned up and dressed in a red silk suit, but still wearing the leather collar. Their eyes met for an instant, then Alaviyn’s gaze darted downward. Lathyr followed it, and realized the young man was holding Lathyr’s cloak, which must have been discarded at some point in the reception room. 

“My lord.” Alaviyn said, looking back up at Lathyr, and Lathyr astutely detected a barely conquered stammer. There was a gentle tremble about him, something only an elf’s eyes would notice. Lathyr composed himself, placing his own hands behind his back. He was expecting a servant, and was suddenly aware again he was shirtless, wearing only a lose pair of cotton trousers. He felt like his face might be turning red, and he raged at this ridiculous reaction.

“Alaviyn, is it?” He felt stupid as soon as he said it, addressing a pleasure boy who’s name he had learned after assaulting him for a slip of decorum. As though he hadn’t spent the last three hours turning that name over and over in his mind. What was wrong with him? Why had his heart suddenly begun to beat faster?

Alaviyn didn’t move, but swallowed nervously before speaking again. “I came to return your garment, and to apologize, my lord. I meant no offense, in whatever way I may have offered it.” The words tripped out in a babble of noise, Alaviyn’s voice stammering and shaky. 

He looked as though he would rather sprint back through the door, but something was holding him in place. Lathyr knew he must not be helping with the intimidation, staring him down and sizing him up again at the same time, his physique and musculature blatantly superior to the smooth shape of Alaviyn.

Something was off. There was something about Alaviyn’s stance, the way his eyes kept flickering to Lathyr’s own before darting away again, not to floor, but to his body. Intimidation? The wary gaze of someone who suspects themselves prey, Lathyr mused. But no, not entirely. Deep in the youth’s bright emerald eyes, there was something only the keen gaze of another elf would have noticed. 

Lathyr reached out and gently took the cloak from Alaviyn. The young man’s eyes darted back up, meeting his own, and they locked this time. Lathyr swallowed and sighed heavily. 

“Alaviyn, I… I must apologize to you for what i did.” He took a deep breath, and mentally buried his pride. “I must beg your forgiveness.” 

The younger man looked at him, eyes exploring Lathyr’s face. There was a long moment of silence between the two before Alaviyn spoke again. 

“My lord…if you desire my forgiveness…” 

He reached out and placed his hand on Lathyr’s bare chest, and could not miss the excited speed of the heart beating beneath the skin and muscle. He stepped closer, gazing up at Lathyr, his other hand gently moving to the side of the older man. He arched his head to one side, and traced his lips gently up the side of Lathyr’s neck, standing on tiptoe to reach Lathyr’s ear. 

“Then beg me for it.” 

The younger man’s arms were around him by the time their lips met, and in another instant Lathyr had him in his arms, Alaviyn’s legs wrapped around his waist as Lathyr clutched at a thigh and that perfect backside. He stumbled in his passions, and only luck landed the two of them in Lathyr’s bed, bodies rolling among the silken sheets, limbs entwined in a frantic embrace. 

 

By the time the sun rose the next morning, Alaviyn had forgiven Lathyr many times. The light of the new dawn crept across two forms entangled in each others arms among the sheets and blankets, all pretense of class and rank abandoned. Lathyr stroked that golden hair in a barely conscious state, and a drowsy smile broke out on his lips. He had found something in this city he liked after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Like everything i've ever written this took far too long to finish. I'm sat down and attempted to edit it three times in the last two days, but i'm tired of reading it. I very seriously hope to have the next chapter done in the next few weeks. Enjoy!

The sun over the estate had begun the slow, graceful decline into the western sky as the afternoon matured. An idillic midsummer breeze gusted gently through the window, soft and cool. The sunlight poured through on piles of clothes, sheets, and blankets, strewn about the dark wooden floor. On the table underneath the window, a gradually growing collection of plates, bowls, cups and jugs seemed to tussle for space on the polished surface. 

Lathyr sat at the desk in the corner, barely dressed in loose cotton trousers and his coat, thrown over his otherwise naked torso, commanding a view of the entire room. His attention was now on the papers scattered across the surface, missives and letters from his captain of the home guard, the keeper of his house, and a dozen other members of the aristocracy of the Sin’Dorei. Lathyr sighed and rolled the quill impatiently between his fingers. For years Thanyl, his mistress of the home, had been telling him to employ a secretary, and he wished now that he had paid attention to her gentle chiding. 

For two days he had been neglecting these letters. He had been busy, and he smiled. Lathyr and Alaviyn hadn’t left Lathyr’s guest room unless they had to. Normally Lathyr was up before the sun, training with sword and bow before going on his morning run with the recruits of the frontier guard. But his new companion has fulfilled his daily demand for physical exertion admirably. 

He was penning his last message to Kalwyn, his senior captain in the ranger corps, when the door opened. Alaviyn sidled in, balancing a tray of food and bottles. He shifted the tray and closed the door behind him, gliding over and setting both the tray and himself on the edge of the desk. 

“No rest for the nobility, my lord?” His voice was smooth and playful, with a touch of sympathy. Lathyr smiled up at him, plucking a piece of bread from the tray. The food smelled wonderful, freshly prepared in the sprawling kitchens on the ground floor of the mansion. 

“No, I’m afraid not. I should have taken the advice from my housekeeper and gotten myself a secretary years ago. The military aspect I can handle, but all these nobles, i don’t know what half of them even want from me.” His eyes narrowed. “And I know they want something. No one writes just be cordial.” 

Alaviyn picked up a letter, scanning it and sipping something from a bottle he had brought. 

“A standard letter of congratulation it seems. And you’re replying yourself? You really do need a secretary.” He laughed and tossed the letter back on to the desk, before leaning over and rubbing Lathyr’s shoulders. 

“You know, I DO have talents outside the bedroom. I can take care of these letters if you like. Standard bows and curtsies, this is the kind of thing I was raised on. May I?” 

Lathyr let the quill slump in his fingers, enjoying the pressure on his bare shoulders with a sigh. He rocked gently with the motion of Alaviyn’s hands, closing his eyes and trying to relax. The breeze through the window felt good, Alaviyn felt good, and he slowly smiled. “That would be a weight off my mind, thank you.” 

Alaviyn gracefully rotated himself on his hips, spreading his legs and smoothly settling into Lathyr’s lap. His shoulder rubs sneaked down under Lathyr’s arms and became back rubs, Alaviyn pressing his face into Lathyr’s neck. “It would be my pleasure.” He moved his lips to the skin of Lathyr’s neck and began kissing gently. 

Lathyr held his lover tight, craning his neck to expose more skin to Alaviyn’s lips. He squeezed and massaged Alaviyn’s back, sliding his hands under the silken shirt and marveling for the hundredth time that skin so soft could exist. 

Alaviyn broke his attention on Lathyr’s neck, drawing back and smiling, his hand resting on Lathyr’s cheek. His hips had begun to rock slowly, and his breathing had increased in pace. He arched his back, making his lovely backside stick out, and began sliding down Lathyr’s chest, off his lap, until he settled, on his knees before his lover. 

His fingers deftly worked at the strings on the front of Lathyr’s trousers, loosening the restraints on the hardening member. Lathyr gently rubbed Alaviyn’s hair, scratching affectionately, as though at a favored pet. 

At the exact moment Alaviyn opened his mouth to take in Lathyr with unexpected suddenness, the bedroom door swung open with a clank of the unlocked door handle. Lathyr reacted in an instant, jerking himself forward to the desk. Alaviyn was pushed under, and a further few inches of Lathyr’s shaft pushed past his lips with a muffled squeak of surprise. 

Into the once private room strode Korleos Sunwing. He was dressed smartly, form fitted red and gold suit cut stylishly, with a black and gold cloak flung over one shoulder. Lathyr spasmed as the instinct to rise was fought by his desire to not stand up and reveal his now saliva smeared privates. Korleos beamed at him and waved his hand.

“Lathyr! I thought the servants had said they had seen you leave for the day… No matter. No need to rise, I simply must apologize for this intrusion. Very rude, I know, but I have so much on my plate. The weight of the mantle, the burden of responsibility….” Korleos had strode briskly over to the window, gazing out across the expanse of his estates and to the rolling hills and the village beyond. 

Lathyr pulled back a touch and glared daggers down at Alaviyn, who looked up at him with a wicked expression, bobbing slowly and gently at his task. Lathyr tried to pull back, but Alaviyn grabbed him by the back of his lower legs, throwing Laythr’s balance and preventing him from pushing his chair away. He tried to reach down to grapple with Alaviyn’s hands, but Alaviyn batted at his hands and squirmed. 

Lathyr gave up, terrified of making noise, whipping his arms back up and looking to the window just as Korleos finished whatever he had been saying and moved his attention from the window back to Lathyr. He realized Korleos had asked him a question, and he stammered for a second. 

“I… my lord forgive me, my… leg.” He finished lamely. 

Korleos shot him a look of mixed sympathy and concern. “Old war wound, is it? Would you like me to ring for a physician? An alchemist, perhaps?” 

Lathyr shook his head, looking down at the desk and waving a dismissive hand. “Thank you, my lord, no. I’ll be alright in time, just a momentary ache.” 

That much was technically true. Under Alaviyn’s treatment he would not last much longer. He gritted his teeth. This had happened before, or he was at least fairly sure it had, sometime in the drunken, heady swirl of the first night the two had spent together. But now, when he had to hold in his gasps, restrain his hands and restrict his body from squirming in delight at the feel of his lover’s soft, hot mouth, he had nothing to focus on except the blissful sensation. 

He tensed up as Korleos strode calmly across the room, clicking his tongue in a sympathetic manner. Korleos took a chair that had been sitting before the desk and seated himself, one leg over the other, folding his hands in his lap. Lathyr groaned inwardly, resenting the blustery nature of Korleos now more than ever. 

“I understand, my friend. I myself was thrown from my horse once, the poor creature struck by a spear in battle on the far western front. Of course, he was more mad than distraught, mad enough to stamp the troll who threw it to death under his hooves.” He chuckled, eyes glazing ever so slightly with memory. 

“But I was thrown, in full armor no less. Went over like a shelf of kettles, loud as you like. Knees never been the same since, still acts up in the wrong humidity…” 

He tapped his fingers together, lost in thought for a moment. Lathyr felt he should say something, but he was afraid to open his mouth, certain a moan of pleasure would come out, beyond his control. Instead he nodded, trying to regain control of himself. He splayed a hand slowly on the table, desperate to grab on to something, to clench something. But there was nothing he could grab, save the soft golden curls that were brushing against each of his thighs. 

He realized he was not meeting his conversational obligations, but was still wary of opening his mouth. He decided to risk it, making a show of shifting his weight in his chair and passing off the hiss of pleasure from his lips as one of discomfort. Beneath the desk, Alaviyn rocked his head side to side, increasing the pace of his task. His lips and tongue were alive with motion, and occasionally he would push himself deep, threatening to bring forth a gasp of as much shock as pleasure. 

“That is a shame, my lord. Is there something I can help you with?”

It was a weak attempt, but somewhere beyond the waves of bliss he was still mindful enough to want to hurry this conversation along and get to the point. Alaviyn was beginning to service him in earnest down, deep pushes that filled his mouth, smoothly taking Lathyr’s shaft into his throat and wrapping him in a wonderfully hot, smooth sensation. Lathyr set his teeth, feeling his resolve straining all the more now. 

Korleos smiled indulgently, and inclined his head. “As it so happens, there is something you could do for me. Tonight is the final eve of the midsummer revel, and I simply won’t have you missing the entire event. I insist you join me tonight in the crimson quarter for the festivities, as my honored guest of course.” He gently set an envelope, an invitation, on the corner of the desk. 

This was not anything Lathyr had any interest in attending, but the tension between his legs was reaching a boiling point, and with a few sudden energetic motions from his partner, he realized what was happening weather he was ready or not. He tried to fight this, his mind flashed and spasmed, screaming at him to leap into action. But there was no action to be taken. There was nothing he could do, except try to maintain his composure as best he could. 

“Thank you, my lord, I shall strive my utmost to attend-“ 

He had planned to say more, he was sure of it. But there was no time. With every fiber of his strength, with a nigh supernatural effort, he held himself still as he climaxed gloriously, waves of pleasure throbbing hotly through his body. Alaviyn cooed, impossibly quiet, but Lathyr was acutely aware of the vibrations of the noise as the man on his knees before him swallowed rhythmically. He wanted to buck his hips, to hiss in his breath and gasp, to moan and shudder, to drag his lover up by the hair and ravage his face and neck with savage kisses. 

He did none of this. His eyes met Korleos’, still looking at him indulgently, as if waiting for a finished explanation. He opened his mouth again. 

“I shall be there..ah… my Lord.” 

Korleos beamed, sliding to his feet once more. “Splendid! I promise, you won’t regret this. No, don’t get up. I’m sending a physician up here, no arguments. You’ll receive the best of care, I promise. You’ll want to be in top shape for tonight!” 

He turned and swept from the room, his black leather boots clicking on the polished wood and stone of the floors of the mansion. The door closed behind him, and Lathyr held his composure for three more agonizing seconds, before he gasped aloud and slumped in his chair, breathing hard, his arms too weak to raise. 

Alaviyn slid snakily up between his legs, his eyes wide with innocence. “I am sorry my lord, was that not a good time?” 

Lathyr allowed himself a laugh, far too exhausted to be mad at his lover. He ran his hand of the young man’s side, pulling him close on his lap and resting his head against Alaviyn’s chest. Alaviyn gently ran his fingers through Lathyr’s hair, stroking down the back of his neck. 

Lathyr’s eyes were suddenly very heavy, and he wanted to sleep. He sighed contentedly, enjoying Alaviyn’s weight on his lap and his soft skin beneath his fingers. “I’ll make you pay for that someday, I swear it.” 

The brushing stopped for a moment. Alaviyn looked down at the top of Lathyr’s head. 

“Someday.” He whispered. He began brushing again gently, and embraced Lathyr, resting against him. His voice was not coy, nor seductive, or playful. Instead there was a deeper tone, one of earnestness, and honest desire.

“I hope you do.” 

Lathyr was not listening. The golden sunlight and the warmth of the afternoon, the gentle breeze and comfortable weight of his lover had lulled him, and the Lord of the house of Greentree slept contentedly. 

 

Two hours later, Lathyr was awake again, fidgeting with the top buttons on his military uniform. Given the choice he would still be asleep, but Korleos was true to his word, and a physician had arrived to find him alone and asleep at his desk. A rather pushy young woman had accompanied him, and drawn forth a renewed promise to attend the revelry that evening. 

Lathyr finished his dress routine, gave himself a quick once over in the mirror, and strode from the room, telling himself that the sooner he arrived and put on an appearance the sooner he could leave. 

The massive summer courtyard was alight with the glow of lanterns and alive with dozens of voices. The smells of food, drink, and perfume swirled through the air, wafted about by gentle evening breeze. Lathyr picked his way through the crowd, not given much to mingling and hoping to find something to drink. 

He was rounding the corner, avoiding crossing a wide open space where a few couples had begun dancing to the strings of a group of musicians, when he heard his name being called. He turned, and saw a face he recognized. Galthur Winterstar, supreme commander of the armies of house Winterstar, looked as out of place as Lathyr in midst of an aristocratic gathering. His white hair was swept back into a simple ponytail, and like Lathyr he wore stiff military dress. 

Lathyr was surprised but relieved to see him, for he had been certain there wouldn’t be anyone here who’s company he could suffer for long. But Galthur was a soldier like himself, and when Arthas had marched on Quel’Thalas, Galthur had led the knights of House Winterstar west from the shores of the northern sea, sweeping the forests and hills clear of the shambling undead. 

They saluted one another, then Galthur laughed and they embraced. “It is good to see you here, Lathyr Greentree. I believe I have had my fill of these socialites for a lifetime.” 

Lathyr nodded grimly, casting his eyes back around the courtyard. “I agree with you there. These people are all frock and no fight. How are you keeping, and why are you here of all places?”

Galthur sighed and tapped the chest of his uniform, which had a small patch of his houses sigil, a bright silver star, sewn onto the silk. 

“My father insisted I attend as a delegate of my house. It is his opinion that these social ladder climbing events are of the utmost importance to a young officer who wants to climb the ladder.” 

Lathyr laughed out loud at this. “So you aspire to attend balls and galas, so that you may earn more favor and grace from these aristocrats, owe them more obligations, and attend more balls and galas?” 

Galthur chuckled. “I aspire to be back in my saddle with my bow in my hands. My men now are encamped on the western edge of the estate. They drink around a fire and feast while we bow and curtsey in these ridiculous silks. The burden of a cultured birth, eh? I’ve been going properly stir crazy since I arrived yesterday. How have you passed the time?” 

Lathyr fought an urge to stammer, and instead gestured to a corridor he vaguely thought might lead to the library. “I’ve spent a great deal of time in the library. Lord Korleos has a surprisingly large collection of military texts and histories.” 

Galthur nodded, and Lathyr motioned to the table of refreshments. “Join me for a drink?” Galthur nodded again with a grin. 

“And that would be the perk of a cultured birth. Lead on.” 

Lathyr turned and stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of them, a procession of nobles trooped from the courtyard towards on of the candle lighted corridors that lead back into the mansion. They were dressed richly, some sporting strange masks in the shapes of animals, mythic creatures, and stylized, ideal versions of elvish faces. Among them moved the lithe, young forms of elves, barely clad in sumptuous silks and various golden baubles and trinkets. They purred and caressed and squirmed enticingly around the nobles as they moved into the mansion. At first, the prancing forms had been an indistinguishable riot of color and movement. But among them, his vision was drawn like a magnet to one, a figure he recognized immediately. 

Alaviyn was wearing nothing but a short silk skirt, black with golden patterns worked around the waist and hem, and a white leather collar, from which trailed a chain, held in the hand of a tall, haughty looking nobleman. He was following his leader, occasionally leaning close to the nobleman’s ear and whispering something with a flirtatious smile on his face, earning a satisfied smirk from the tall man. 

Lathyr felt numb. He stared, and the sounds around him seemed to fade out gently. Galthur was saying something, but Lathyr didn’t hear. He could only watch Alaviyn, who squirmed playfully against the chain, then stepped up quickly to the nobleman’s side, pressing himself against him and gasping happily as he received as a firm slap on his backside. 

He made a move as if to skip forward, when his head turned. He saw Lathyr, and for a moment his eyes seemed to not register him. Then he stopped, and recognition flooded into his features. The smile vanished from his face, and the playfulness seemed to drain instantly from his eyes, to be replaced by an entirely unconcealed mixture of fear, shame, and embarrassment. 

He looked like he wanted to take a step towards Lathyr, to say something, to plead or explain. Then the noble holding his chain gave a firm tug, and Alaviyn was jerked back into the cavorting group, which vanished into the dark corridor of the mansion. 

Galthur nudged Lathyr in the back. “Are you thinking of going to the crimson quarter? Some of the ladies i’ve seen around here, I wouldn’t say no to their company.” 

Lathyr shook himself. He only had a faint idea what was going on in the crimson quarter, but he had not liked the sight of Alaviyn with that other, and something hot and sickly was beginning to churn in his gut. 

“I may, I do not know. Excuse me, Galthur, I have something I must see to right now.” His voice was leaden and emotionless. 

Fists clenched, Lathyr strode quickly back the way he had come, leaving Galthur alone and bewildered, under the warm evening sky.


	3. The Nobleman's Reward 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex this time, just me guessing at what heartfelt conversations between lovers are actually like. These two will be back.

Paper, quills, and ink scattered to the floor as Lathyr swept his desk with his arms in one savage movement. He had made it to his room and slammed the door before he exploded. He pounded the desk top over and over again, ignoring the pain in his hand, and kicked the chair over with a loud clatter. 

He was too disciplined even now to scream, but he wanted to, and his breath hissed as he snarled in anger. He cursed and swore in low growls, fighting the urge to hurl more things or draw his sword and do some real damage to the furniture in his room 

He should have known, he chided himself. He should have been prepared, should have seen through the affection of a young man that was as fake as every other courtesy offered to him in this accursed den of pampered brats. 

Slowly, he took his head in his hands, squeezing and massaging his temples. He was still the fool from the forest, still the simple oaf to be suckered and tricked at every turn by the coy and the clever. 

Hatred flared hot and sudden in him, and for a moment he thought again of his sword. He wished for something to strike, anything would do, but he’d love that wretched noble who had held the chain around Alaviyn’s neck. 

He shook this thought away, his rage turning bitter again. Alaviyn was a prop, he told himself. Someone paid for by Korleos to keep him occupied in his bedchamber instead of stalking about the estate like the unwelcome presence he really was. 

The respite on the floor caused the frantic energy of anger to quickly ebb from him, and he was suddenly exhausted again. He would be gone before the sun rose in the morning, he swore. To the hells with this place and everyone here. 

He rose, slowly, and lurched in the direction of his bed. He had not bothered to light the candles near his bed, and he fell forward when his knees reached it, face first into his pillow. 

His nose struck something hard, and in a flash of renewed anger he shrieked a curse, grabbing whatever it was and hurling it across the room to clatter against the wall. It had felt like a soft package of cloth. 

Lathyr waited a moment, breathing angrily through his aching nose. He closed his eyes, kneeling on his bed, and slowly mastered himself. He felt for the bedside table, taking up a mana candle and uttering the simplistic spell to light it. The tiny flame sputtered into life, and he rose to pick his way across the floor to where the package had fallen. 

It was a black piece of silk, and it had been wrapped around something. He bent and retrieved it, slipping something from within the fabric. 

At first he thought it was a belt, but it was far too short. He realized suddenly it was a black leather collar. A piece of highly polished metal was attached to the middle, and there were very fine markings on it. Lathyr brought the candle close and held the collar up to the light. The script was old elvish, and he took a moment to work it out. 

“Property of Lord Lathyr Greentree”

Lathyr stared, unsure what the phrase was supposed to mean. The collar seemed new, the leather still stiff and the edges still clean and neat. Perplexed, he turned to set the collar and silk on the desk, prepared to cast this strange package aside as one more confounding aspect of the games played by these city people. 

Something else fell from the silk, landing on the desk with a tiny pinging sound. It was small, but reflected the light of the mana candle brilliantly. Lathyr caught up the thing and examined it closely. 

It was a small ornament, akin to a necklace piece or brooch. It was in the shape of a rose flower and stem, pressed flat like a piece of a work of stained glass. The outline of the entire thing was highly polished silver, but the petals of the rose were fiery rubies, and the stem and leaves made of a composite of crushed emeralds. At the base of the stem was a small loop of metal, and tied through this was a crimson cord of silk. 

Lathyr was no judge of aesthetics, but he could still tell this was finely crafted with purpose and care, not something that could be found on a peddler’s cart. He flipped it over and saw a tiny inscription on the back. 

“Alaviyn Redthorn”

Lathyr nearly dropped the thing as realization of what it was struck him like an arrow from an ambush. He nearly lost his footing and had to grab the desk for support. 

Since time immemorial, a tradition so ancient it predated the sundering of the well of eternity, it had been an elvish custom among nobility to receive a small token such as this from a lover before departing for battle or a long journey. Lathyr himself had one, in the shape of a tiny gold and emerald leaf, though he had never given it to another. 

But this was not a simple keepsake or bauble. They were not given lightly. The custom and practice dictated a solemn vow of loyalty and love, as a symbol of one’s undying favor and blessing upon another as the two lovers traded the charms with one another. It was practically a marriage proposal. 

Lathyr held the little rose for a long time, his eyes wandering over the thing as his mind wandered over his situation, what had happened and what this could all mean. His own feelings were strong for Alaviyn. Where they really reciprocated that strongly? 

Could this be some kind of trick? Or a tasteless idea of a fantasy? Some tacky, tawdry foolishness of the city? 

No, he decided. There may be differences of decorum and lifestyle between the inner provinces and the border regions, but this was not a custom that would be mocked with a fake token. But that would mean the token was real, and what was he supposed to do now? 

There was a commotion outside his room as of running feet, then his door burst open. It was Alaviyn, gasping for breath, his slender frame shaking as with great exertion. The light in the room was dim but Lathyr could see his eyes were red, his face flushed. 

The faced each other for a moment, neither speaking. Then Alaviyn took a step forward and opened his mouth to say something, but Lathyr stopped him with a raised hand. 

“Shouldn’t you be at the end of someone’s chain.” 

Alaviyn balled his fists, and a fresh glitter of moisture appeared in his eyes. But he snapped, and his voice did not quaver an inch. 

“You think I wanted to be there? You think i want to strip down and be lead around like some preforming beast? I work in a mansion, I live in silks and wine and luxury, so this must all be my choice, is that it?” 

Lathyr was stunned. He had expected an apology, tears maybe, pleading, anything but the sudden wrath he faced. He had never seen Alaviyn like this, but the younger man took confidence from his words and went on. 

“You pride yourself on being better than the other nobles here, no head in the clouds for you. But you aristocrats are all the same, your worlds only revolve around you and your own selfishness. You never imagine someone would be forced to do what I do, not when all the trapping are so nice.” 

He tore suddenly at the collar he still wore on his neck, loosed it and flung it across the room. Lathyr did not move, but stood, tensed and expecting. The burst of effort seemed to have taken something out of Alaviyn, and he slumped, leaning against the doorframe and slowly falling to a seated position. 

His breath came in a sob, and Lathyr saw he was crying now, one hand in his lap and the other trying to push the tears out of his eyes and off his face. 

Lathyr slowly walked over to him, and knelt, wanting to take the younger mans hand, but wary suddenly of touching him without an invitation to do so. He gathered himself for a moment, then spoke. 

“Alaviyn… I am so sorry. The whole time I have known you i have treated you as less than… well, than a person. I did not appreciate everything you did for me, the time of yours that you chose to spend with me.” 

Their eyes met, and Lathyr gently took Alaviyn’s hand, pressing the little rose back into it. Lathyr leaned close, and he was suddenly unable to suppress a tremor in his own voice as he looked down and whispered. 

“I want you more than anything, Alaviyn Redthorn. But I am not worthy of you. Not yet.” 

He felt a hand on his face, and his eyes returned to Alaviyn’s face. Tears were running from those perfect eyes, and they rested their foreheads against each other. Alaviyn put a hand on the back of Lathyr’s neck, and gasped and sniffed softly. 

“The time you were here… those days…” 

He was unable to say more, but Lathyr took him in his arms and they embraced. Lathyr clung tightly, whispering in Alaviyn’s ear. 

“Come with me, back to my home. Come away from this place, with me, let me earn my place at your side and we can be together, always.” 

Alaviyn was wracked with a sudden sob, and he pushed away from Lathyr’s arms. Lathyr let him go, but clutched his wrist before Alaviyn could go further. The younger man looked at Lathyr, and his eyes were a mixture of sadness and longing. 

“I can’t. I am bound to this place by a debt of my family, my sister and I. If I run away with you, the strife it would cause…” He trailed away before continuing again. 

“Lord Korleos would not let it stand. You and your people would suffer, not by war, but by other means, by his schemes and his influence.” 

Lathyr was seized by a sudden rush of passion. Before him was his lover, the young man he had wanted to take away since their first night together, and he was in tears, his body weak from sorrow. 

“Alaviyn, wait here for me. I have to see Lord Korleos.” 

Alaviyn grasped Lathyr’s hand, his voice returning with panic. 

“Lathyr please, don’t. Korleos is not who you think he is, you cannot be rash with him!” 

Lathyr put steel in his voice, and a heavy hand on Alaviyn’s shoulder, meeting the younger man’s panicked eyes with his own steady glare. 

“Wait here for me, Alaviyn.” 

He stood and snatched his blade and belt from the hooks by the door, and was gone before Alaviyn could plead further. 

 

The doors to the pleasure quarter were open, which was a shame, for Lathyr would dearly have loved to throw them open and make a great deal of harsh noise. The scantily clad servants approached him as he entered with trays of delicacies, but he merely grabbed the first one, a young girl with swaying brown hair, by her wrist. 

“Lord Korleos. Show me to him.” 

The girl took a glance at Lathyr’s features and nodded in haste, fairly sprinting through the sumptuous halls, rich with velvet, silk, and the scents of perfume. 

She lead him to a large set of double doors, closed and watched by a pair of handsome young men who made to stop Lathyr as he approached, but Lathyr bulled past the two with no gentle shoves of his shoulders and arms, pressing the doors open and stalking inside. 

The room was practically obscured by a haze of smoke from burning incense sticks and lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The cut glass of each light fixture was a mixture of purple and crimson, casting a maddening effect through the room. The walls were hung with silks, the floor a riot of cushions, blankets, low couches and benches. Bodies were everywhere, draped over the furniture, ached against backlights in seductive poses, writhing on the floor. The air was rank with what couldn’t be anything other than drugs, competing with the incense and the smell of sweat. A harp was being played somewhere in the darkness beyond the immediate field of vision. 

Korleos Sunwing was lounging in an elegant chair, two young woman in collars and chains squirming about his laps, their hands exploring and teasing at his garments. His eyes lighted as he saw Lathyr, but darkened again rather quickly as he noticed the sour look on Lathyr’s face. 

Lathyr glowered at him. “I would speak with you. Alone.” 

Korleos spread his hands wide, a look of injured innocence on his face. “My lord, please, take your ease here! I have wine, women, any number of other delicacies to delight you!” 

Lathyr put steel in his voice, fairly barking in strict military fashion. 

“Alone. Now!” 

Korleos sighed and stood, motioning to a side door Lathyr could barely see through the mists of smoke and the swirl of silks. He pushed his way impatiently through the crowd, steeping through the door into a small chamber. It was small and windowless, lighted only by a few candles arranged on a wooden table, the only other furniture being a reclining velvet couch and a plush rug on the floor. 

Korleos stepped in the room behind him, closing the door with a soft click. 

“What is the meaning of this Lathyr? Has someone here done aught to offer you offense?” 

Lathyr waved his hand impatiently. 

“Keep the gold you offered me for the ring. I don’t want it. I would have your servant, Alaviyn, and his sister, enter my service instead.” 

Korleos frowned, twisting the ring on his finger. He seemed to be thinking it over, and slowly a grim smile formed on his lips. 

“The boy and his sister, you say… That is much to ask, though I do not deny you have done much for me.” 

He looked up suddenly at Lathyr, smiling. “I will agree, on one condition.” 

Lathyr grimaced, but nodded. “Name it then.” 

Korleos pent his fingers together before him and cocked his head. 

“Sometime in the future I may have need of your talents, Lord Lathyr. Your skill and experience in martial matters, and so on. Perhaps even the blades of your house. But one day, I will call on your support, and you will provide it. Agreed?” 

Lathyr paused for a moment. This seemed like a straightforward deal on the surface, and despite the dramatic mention of the ‘blades of his house,’ surely he would most likely just need a backing voice in a council meeting, or a display of power. 

The thought of his lover flared in his mind, and Lathyr felt his fingers tingle, as though the soft blonde curls were once more within his grasp, and his mind was made up. 

“I accept, Lord Korleos. I shall keep my oath to this act of aid.” 

Korleos smiled, and opened his arms wide. 

“Most wonderful, my Lord Lathyr. Then we are both agreed. Take your ease in my home as long as you wish.” 

Lathyr nodded, then moved past Korleos to the door. His hand was on the handle when Korleos spoke again. 

“Lord Lathyr.” 

Lathyr stopped suddenly, and turned. Korleos faced him, and though his face was inscrutable, he seemed almost sad, or was it perhaps relief? 

“The boy has not had an easy life. I have done what I can for him, but… I am no lover, nor a good companion for one such as him.”

He met Lathyr’s eyes, and he smiled, a warm, honest smile. 

“Be kind to him, my lord Lathyr. He has a gentle soul, and a soft heart.” 

Lathyr was taken aback, but he mastered himself quickly. 

“I will, Lord Korleos. I will love him with my heart, and protect him with my life.” 

Korleos nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “Then I believe I shall return to my revels.” 

They returned to the pleasure chamber, and as Korleos was drawn back into the heady, silken embrace of the party, he turned back, and saw the cloak of Lathyr Greentree, swishing through the door as he left the chamber, his heart intent on his lover.


End file.
